


Wind on the Withered Heath

by BilbosFavoriteDragon



Category: Sherlock (TV), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Interspecies Sex, Lemon, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mpreg, Omega Bilbo, Omega Verse, Smauglock, alpha smaug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-03-02 16:18:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2818448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BilbosFavoriteDragon/pseuds/BilbosFavoriteDragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After losing his family to mass genocide, Smauglock Holmes completely decimates the kingdom of Erebor. Two hundred years later he is faced with little Johnbo Baggins, and what then is a bored consulting dragon to do? Smaugbo, mpreg, lemon</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When Dragons Fall

Along the floor of the east-west valley between the great Grey Mountains, lay the fiery wrath of the inhabitants of the breeding ground known by most as The Withered Heath. To the north of Rhovanion and the remnants of the wall of the Iron Mountains, dragon-infested land stretched across Middle-Earth, a place feared by all from as far as the Barrow-Downs of Eriador to the treacherous black land of Mordor.  
The powerful Morgoth had long since fallen, cast into a dark deep and bottomless void, never again to see the light of Arda’s sun, lest the Valar fall and the disgraced Maia Sauron return to power. However, this mattered to none in The Withered Heath, for the dragons remembered their master. The dragons, the winged drakes created and bred from the very ash of Gondolin, would never forget the cruel and twisted soul by which life was forced into their miserable bodies. Morgoth had not brought life to nurtured and loyal beings, he had purposely forged from the deepest pits of despair the most wretched of Tumladen’s creatures, creatures bred of chaos and destruction.  
The dragons were inconsolable in their greed, and cursed their master for the longevity and quality of life that fell dependent on gold and gemstone. It was in their very nature to pillage and to steal, to breathe fire and to kill, and most of these unfortunate drakes were horrified by this unstoppable force burning inside of them. For the very worst thing Morgoth gave to his creations was an intense amount of emotion, intelligence, and conscience. They were forced to pillage and to kill, and then subjected to wallow in their guilt and self-pity, which usually ended up becoming anger, and only fueling more war and bringing about more death.  
It was because of this misfortune that most great dragons (only after Morgoth’s death of course) slept on their hordes of gold for centuries, never to bother another soul so long as they should live. Unless, of course, said dragon was robbed or otherwise disturbed, which would reawaken the intense anger that lay dormant in every dragon’s heart. By the beginning of the Third Age, most drakes already owned piles of gold and no one in Middle Earth was bothered much by the nearly mythical beings.  
There is, on the other hand, an exception to every rule. There were still a few dragons left to live in The Withered Heath, dragons with no gold to their name and no immortality on their side. An entire family of dragons had been living, breeding, and dying in that valley for centuries. These dragons prided themselves on not being like the rest of Morgoth’s creations, they were able to resist the dark desires that lurked within them, they wanted to be good and were willing to pay the price of mortality to do so. The dragons living in the Heath at the start of our story were little in number, but substantially big in heart considering their race.  
There was Ralarth the Protector, mate of Igirre and father of several young dragons living in The Withered Heath. He was a great white dragon, and incredibly powerful for one so docile in nature. Ralarth and his kin lived peacefully in the valley with only one other family of drakes, with whom the children were betrothed to one day marry.  
Ralarth and his people coexisted with the Noldor for many years, completely unaware that a band of Noldor kind were working closely with a Dwarven king from a neighboring village. King Moriarty from the kingdom of Reichenbach, a small space just below the mountains, had been informed by a group of Elvish extremists that the dragons who had slaughtered their families in the War of Gondolin were loitering in the valley near their homes. This wasn’t entirely a lie, as one of Ralarth’s sons, Mycroft, had been the one sent by Morgoth to terrorize this land.  
Mycroft the Fire Drake of Gondolin, that is what they called him. Morgoth had forced him to wipe the entire city into near extinction, carrying Balrogs on his back. Mycroft was perhaps one of the more numb dragons, opting to feel little guilt for his actions, but his heart was not prone to evil, and he never wished for anything that occurred in that war to be by his own hand. He was a beautiful dragon, a rich purple hue, enormous in comparison to his brothers and sisters, and was adorned with glittering golden scales along his thin but hardly bereft tail.  
Within this particular family of dragons, Mycroft had been burdened with the task of looking after his younger siblings, Smauglock the Golden in particular. Smauglock had a knack for both mischief and a troubling amount of curiosity, constantly getting himself into trouble. This dragon was smaller in stature than that of Mycroft, but was a glossy cherry red color (with a gold underbelly, hence the name) more beautiful than even Mycroft ever hoped to be. Though Mycroft would never admit it, Smauglock was perhaps his favorite of his siblings, and he saw a lot of himself in the younger drake.  
It is with Mycroft and Smauglock that this story truly begins. It was Smauglock who was out on That Day, his nose stuck in where it didn’t belong, per usual. The curious young dragon had flown out over the Grey Mountains, stretching his wings and taking in all he could see. He was unaware of those who fled at the mere sight of him, and others of those who pointed and stared. Smauglock was only five hundred years old, still just an adolescent. He didn’t understand that the other races of Middle-Earth feared his kind, or that he was part of any sort of minority. He perched on the summit and peered out on the kingdoms south of the mountain range, a smile stretching across his features.  
Smauglock had been born with a gift of deduction, he was one of the most intelligent of all the great dragons, and his keen eyes scanned his new surroundings with a scrutinizing amount of care.  
Grassy plane  
Well worn  
Cabin  
Clothes line  
….Scarf?  
From what he could deduce, the summit was occupied very obviously by an Elven family living in the cabin behind him. The worn grass was an indicator of children, namely male, and about five from the looks of the dirty laundry. It was a windy morning, and Smauglock assumed that was the reason that a lone scarf had gotten free from the laundry and was caught and billowing from a nearby willow. It was a deep blue and for some reason the dragon couldn’t quite put his talon on, he was fascinated by it. Smauglock was using his tail to wrap the piece of fabric around his long neck when the harsh beating of wings was heard in his ears.  
“Mycroft.” Smauglock drawled in a bored tone, without having to look up to know who was there. The elder dragon was glaring at his brother, bright eyes narrowed into slits.  
“What are you doing here, Smaug? Do you know what father will do to you if he finds you out here?!” Smauglock lazily gazed at his older sibling, a hardly contained annoyance brewing behind his calm demeanor.  
“Please do bother to pronounce my name in its entirety. I find nicknames to be dull.” Truth was, Smaug is what his mother called him, and due to her recently fast fading health, Smauglock had decided she reserved a special right to call him as she pleased. Mycroft was well aware that the endearment was only allowed to his mother, but it was a fairly new rule and abiding it was hard on the entire family.  
“Excuse me, Smauglock, but if we don’t depart from here soon there will be consequences. Elf folk haven’t taken too kindly to us since…” Mycroft was cut off by the sound of a female scream and a thud, turning to find the mother of the household had discovered them and fainted. The sound of heavy male footsteps rushing toward the cabin door was easily picked up by the ears of both dragons and Mycroft immediately took to the sky.  
“Run!” Smauglock quickly followed his brother, the two rushing back toward their valley as the Elves gathered outside.  
“Boe de meriad I naneth!” A long haired Elven man shouted to his children, five sons, as Smauglock had predicted. The children each helped carry their mother back inside while the father ran out to the back of the house and grabbed a bow. The Elf whistled and waited, a small crow flying swiftly to him and landing on his shoulder.  
“Tôl auth, avo dheo enni. Gurth anin lhûg! Er-pehded in hadhod, Moriarty. ” The crow flew away as hurriedly as it had come, and the Elven man glanced grimly around his home. It smelt of death in the air and the atmosphere was crawling with unease. The Elf’s only hope was that the downfall would not be their own.  
Ralarth was furious when his children returned to the den. Not only had they broken the rules, but Igirre had fallen ill whilst they were gone, more so than her usual ailments, and she didn’t appear to have long. Smauglock and Mycroft both rushed to her bedside, looking on their withered mother with gloomy eyes.  
“Smaug…Mycie…” She whispered, coiling up as she fought to become comfortable in her last few moments. It was while this was going on that Moriarty received word by way of crow, gathering his military forces and beginning a march into the sorely unprotected Heath. Moriarty’s army was larger than any expected, having gathered Men, Elves, and Dwarves from all over to join in the war effort, and Ralarth knew they couldn’t fight off as many as were coming.  
Ralarth left his ailing wife with her grief-stricken sons, ordering the rest of his family to evacuate while they still had the chance. The only problem was, they didn’t have a chance, and Moriarty’s troops had been waiting on them. It only took one arrow to pierce and kill the eldest of the children, Sherrinford, and begin one of the bloodiest wars the dragons had faced yet.  
Smoke rose and the mountain blazed, scorching hot fire licking and consuming those who dared fight on the front line. One breath from a dragon was enough to take out ten men, but the dragons were so few, and the more soldiers decimated the harder the rest fought. By the time ten thousand casualties had been paid by Moriarty, only Ralarth remained. He was wounded, but determined to defend the small cavern concealing Mycroft and Smauglock, who were still with their mother’s body.  
“Give it up, abomination! This battle is lost!” Moriarty shouted, drawing his sword and making his way to the front of what was left of his followers. Ralarth reared back and let out an earth shattering roar, embers blowing harshly from his nostrils as he prepared to give the last that he had left in him. A taunting smirk crossed Moriarty’s lips, an almost hysterical laugh ringing out in that tar like darkness.  
“I will burn you, I will burn the heart out of you!” Moriarty growled, a sickly satisfied look crossing his face as he watched a few of his men creep toward the cavern from his peripheral vision.  
“No, it is I that shall burn you.” Without a moment’s more thought Ralarth vomited fire, not in Moriarty’s direction, but in the direction of those who had not gone unnoticed, sneaking into his den. It had weakened the old dragon considerably and Moriarty knew it. He’d won.  
“People have died.” Ralarth muttered almost incoherently, as if asking for motive. Ralarth and his family hadn’t done anything deserving of this bloodshed. Moriarty tilted his head to the side curiously and seemed to think about it for a moment.  
“Aw, well, THAT’S WHAT PEOPLE DO!” He screamed, walking closer to Ralarth still, knowing full well that there was nothing the drake could do to defend himself at this point. He reached out, gently stroking the pure white scales of the beast and earning a venomous hiss in return. Moriarty’s sword trailed along the soft underside of the dragon, whose lids were drawing heavy.  
“Catch you…later.” Ralarth panted out, knowing full well that this was the end. The Dwarf let out a cheery chuckle and shook his head.  
“No you won’t!” He jabbed the sword deep into the heart of the dragon, who let out one final, pained roar, and collapsed. The sound could be heard by Mycroft and Smauglock, who shuddered as their father’s final wail ricocheted off the cavern walls. Smauglock was wrapped around his mother, who had peacefully passed away during the battle, his snout buried in her neck. Mycroft on the other hand had put mourning on the backburner, his instinct to protect his little brother coming before all else. Mycroft knew this battle hadn’t died with his father, Moriarty was coming for them next.  
“Sorry, boys! You can’t be allowed to continue. You just can’t. I would try to convince you… everything I have to say has already crossed your mind.” King Moriarty quipped as he entered the dragons den. He was covered in blood, blood Mycroft knew belonged to his father, and the drake’s teeth snarled at the Dwarven king.  
“Probably my answer has already crossed yours.” Mycroft glanced behind him quickly, a forlorn expression breaking onto his features as he watched his younger sibling.  
“Go, Smauglock!” He urged, turning back to face Moriarty once more, ready to go in for the kill. Smauglock opened his mouth to shout a no when Moriarty charged the elder dragon.  
“I said go, now!” Smauglock closed his eyes and did as his brother asked, fleeing the den and flying from The Withered Heath without so much as a second glance.  
Hatred was swelling in Smauglock as he flew out over the Lonely Mountain, a single mountain that stood between his own home in the Grey Mountains and the Iron Mountains that lay in the north. Smauglock had never hated another being in all his life, but That Day, that was the day that encased his heart in ice. The day Smauglock the Golden became Smauglock the Terrible…the day all Dwarves in the kingdom of Erebor would come to rue.  
What fowl creatures Dwarves had turned out to be! That Moriarty…damn him! Curse him! Smauglock would never forget, never forgive. These were the thoughts that were running through the drake’s mind when he headed straight for the town of Dale and obliterated everything in his wake.  
“Dragon! Dragon!” They all shrieked, piles of Dwarves and Men alike running from their homes and into the streets, blindly fleeing into Smauglock’s inferno. Crawling into the front gate of the mountain was next on his list, bent on leaving no Dwarf he saw alive. Smauglock took a deep breath, building fire in his chest as large as the burning rage he felt running through his veins, flames of emerald and scarlet bursting from his chest and melting the gate in one go.  
Some Dwarves managed to escape, including Thrór, King under the Mountain, and his son and grandson. However, those left behind were not as lucky, and fell prey to the engulfing hell around them. Once satisfied, Smauglock slithered through the tunnels and chambers of the Lonely Mountain, the mines once utilized by the royalty of Durin to gain their immense wealth. It was in the heart of the mountain, that Smauglock found perhaps the only thing that could soothe a broken dragon. Deep, tall, glittering piles of gold, so vast in nature, that it was impossible for even the tallest of drakes to see over. Until that very moment, Smauglock had never understood his race’s fascination with riches. But now, now Smauglock understood everything from hate to gold and everything in between, and it was he who was King under the Mountain. He threw himself in his grief into his gold, and there he was to sleep for centuries to come.  
The wind was on the withered heath,  
but in the forest stirred no leaf:  
there shadows lay by night and day,  
and dark things silent crept beneath.  
The wind came down from mountains cold,  
and like a tide it roared and rolled;  
the branches groaned, the forest moaned,  
and leaves were laid upon the mould.  
The wind went on from West to East;  
all movement in the forest ceased,  
but shrill and harsh across the marsh  
its whistling voices were released.  
The grasses hissed, their tassles bent,  
the reeds were rattling -- on it went  
o'er shaken pool under the heavens cool  
where racing clouds were torn and rent.  
It passed the lonely Mountain bare  
and swept above the dragon's lair:  
there black and dark lay boulders stark  
and flying smoke was in the air.  
It left the world and took its flight  
over the wide seas of the night,  
The moon set sail upon the gale,  
and stars were fanned to leaping light.

 

  
{Song and majority of characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien, others belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle}


	2. What Child is This?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smauglock's guilt may be coming to a head, Mycroft makes a discovery, and a certian Hobbit makes his debute.

One hundred and seventy-one years the dragon Smauglock lay on his hoard of gold, bothered by none and seen by none. He slept so long, not a muscle moved, that his already golden colored under-belly was now incrusted with jewels. Smauglock couldn’t bear to be conscious, blaming himself for what had befallen his family, and agonizing over his intense loneliness. He knew he deserved it. He could still smell the blood and feel the heat, Moriarty’s crazed maniacal laughter plaguing his nightmares. Thunderstorms around the mountain were the worst, the cracking thunder translating into the deafening sound of Ralarth’s final roar.  
Though to Smauglock all hope seemed to be lost, all was not as desolate as it appeared. There was another mountain range a few days journey from Erebor, through the thick and perilous wood known as Mirkwood. This range was called the Misty Mountains, and within its walls lay Goblin Town, an Orc dwelling under the High Pass ruled by the Great Goblin. This town was essentially a series of tunnels in the center of the mountain, occupied by enough Orcs and far away enough to keep out the Dwarves that lived in Moria.  
It was because of this that the Misty Mountains, specifically Goblin Town, became the perfect refuge for the only other dragon to survive Moriarty’s war. Mycroft. Mycroft had survived, but had not been left unscathed, and his injured wings would only take him so far. The drake had fought to escape the Dwarves he hadn’t known were dwelling in the mountain and collapsed shortly after making it to the Goblins’ kingdom in the heart of the mountain. Mycroft weighed a ton or more, and many of the Orcs’ tunnels weren’t secure enough for such a load, coming as no surprise when the dirt he’d landed on gave way. Mycroft fell hard and fast into what appeared to be a cave residing in the bottom of the mountain. It was a curious place, dark and damp. There was a lake, and even a little makeshift raft, which Mycroft would later learn belonged to a creature named Gollum.  
Mycroft had passed out upon landing, sleeping for many days and nights before regaining a conscious mind. He awoke to the smell of fish, blood, and a few muffled screams, panic seizing the dragon as he opened his eyes. The creature he saw before him was small, very small in comparison to a dragon, though nonetheless frightening. He was sickly pale, almost grey in color and hunched over, his enormous green eyes glowing in the darkness. The thing smiled, revealing a mouthful of nine disgusting teeth.  
“We feared it might never awaken, preciousss.” It hobbled over to a sort of rotisserie it had made from a fire and a stick, attempting to cook a fish.  
“We tried to cooks it, we did, we knows it probably doesn’t eats it raw like we does, preciousss.” The being slid the fish from the stick and eagerly offered it to Mycroft. Mycroft ignored the thing, glancing around his surroundings carefully. The cries had been coming from an Orc tied up in a corner of the cave, he assumed the creature had stumbled upon in the tunnels.  
“Who are you?” A nasty gurgling sound was heard and the being sputtered a bit, sounding almost as if he were choking on the word ‘Gollum’.  
“Sméagol. We are called Sméagol.” It finally said once it was able. Mycroft was untrusting of this ‘Sméagol’, as he called himself, but was grateful for the obvious care the creature had bothered to bestow upon him and decided to not harm whatever he was. Gollum showed Mycroft many things during his time in the Misty Mountains, and though Gollum’s split personality was a nuisance to the drake, the two actually managed a mediocre friendship. They lived off of fish and Orcs and otherwise stayed out of each other’s way, having conversations here and there.  
That being said, however, one hundred and seventy-one years wore Mycroft’s patience pretty thin, and a heavy melancholy befell him. Mycroft missed Smauglock more and more as the days turned into years, wishing he were less a coward. He already would have gone out in search of his brother had he not been terrified of leaving the cave after what had transpired at The Withered Heath. It had been because he and Smauglock were out in plain sight, out with the other races of Middle Earth, that their family had perished. If he went out and got Smauglock killed, he would never be able to live with himself. And so Mycroft waited, praying that one day the location of his baby brother would be made known to him and that he could overcome his fears and sneak away from his terrible life down in the caves of the Misty Mountains.  
One particularly cold spring morning, an aura of change seemed to be about the air. The year was T. A. 2891 (also known as S. R. 1291 in Shire-Reckoning) and the year was young, as it was only March, the springtime bringing with it new life and new beginnings. Mycroft awoke and stretched his limbs, looking around for his scary little companion. He so hoped Gollum had already captured breakfast, as a viscous moaning was coming from the dragon’s empty stomach.  
“Sméagol? Have the Orcs begun their morning routines yet? I’m starved.” There was no reply, not even the faintest mutter of his friend arguing with himself, which was unusual.  
“Sméagol?” He called again, deciding to get up and investigate. He slithered around in the dark cavern, which had grown on him over the years, reminding him slightly of his den back home. The coolness of the stone beneath him felt good on his scales and he was delighted when he heard something move near the lake. Mycroft submerged himself in the water and swam out to the little raft, not particularly shocked when he saw no one there. Mycroft was aware of Gollum’s magic ring and blew a huge gust of air in the direction of the raft. There was a cry and a splash and the dragon erupted with laughter.  
“Found you. You really should try harder to be quiet when you’re hiding. What are you up to this time?” Gollum gasped for air and climbed back up on the raft, taking off his ring and glaring at Mycroft.  
“It could have killed us! We aren’t good swimmers, preciousss, and now we’ve lost our fishes!” Mycroft turned his snout up and shook his head.  
“Ugh, good riddance to it too. I’m tired of fish, Sméagol, and I’m ravenous. Why don’t we go look for an Orc or two? Who knows, we may even find a human, you bloody well know that the Great Goblin loves to take prisoners.” It was Gollum’s turn to shake his head, letting out a long whine.  
“No, the stupid Orcses got smart. Orcses don’t come to the tunnels now unless they has too, and we’re scared to venture out into their lair.” Mycroft rolled his eyes.  
“Your ring, Sméagol, don’t be daft. They can’t see you.” Mycroft knew the moment he said it, however, that Gollum was going to be difficult about it. Gollum wouldn’t answer him, and Mycroft’s hunger was becoming more than he could bear. He had been living for a very long time on less than a dragon should, and honestly it was catching up with him.  
“Fine, if that’s the way you’re going to be, I’ll do it myself.” Dragons, though few knew it, were magical beings. They were, of course, far less powerful than wizards, or even Elves, but they were more than capable of the basics of magic. One of the basic things was the ability to take a more human form, though very few dragons took advantage of it, as it was a more vulnerable state for them to be in. However, it seemed to Mycroft to come in handy in this situation, as he currently had no fingers. Gollum watched in awe as Mycroft shifted, the enormous drake becoming Man sized, around six feet tall.  
He was ginger, a little scruff around the face, and with grey colored eyes. His hands were still covered in thick patches of purple scales, more patches to be found in various different places on his body and his golden tail and large wings remained, though he looked otherwise human.  
“Now, if you would kindly give me the ring.” Gollum’s fist clinched around the ring, and a deep hiss emerged from the back of his throat.  
“No! MY precious!” An irritated look crossed the dragon’s face, folding his arms and sighing deeply.  
“I’m not trying to rob you, you fool, I’m trying to feed you! Now shut up and give me the damned ring.” Mycroft made the mistake of reaching out for it, Gollum pouncing on him, hands wrapped securely around his neck. The two fell into the water below, and Mycroft could have easily taken the creature had he not been caught so off guard. Thankfully for him, Gollum dropped the ring in his attempts at strangling his friend, and he let go of Mycroft to frantically grasp for it. The dragon didn’t bother with vengeance, swimming to the surface and making his way back to shore.  
That is why we don’t do human form. Mycroft reminded himself, shaking his hair and wings dry. He watched Gollum as he struggled to the safety of the coast, ring in hand. Mycroft was trying very hard not to be cross, but he couldn’t help the frustrated quip that flew out of his mouth, which had been building up for far longer than Gollum probably was aware of.  
“I am so sick of you! There are so many places I would rather be stuck, namely with my brother! You have been driving me mad for almost two centuries, and the sad thing is, you don’t even realize that you are mad!” He yelled, feeling a bit of remorse as Gollum flinched and his childlike green eyes filled with tears.  
“It doesn’t have to shout, preciousss.” He mumbled, fiddling with his fingers. Mycroft was about to apologize when the ‘other side’ of Gollum decided to pipe up.  
“We told you it didn’t care, my love. We told you it wasn’t our friend.” Gollum put his hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes shut.  
“Leave us alone!”  
“Fine, we’ll leave us alone, if you tell it that we’re a liar.” At this, Gollum’s eyes shot open and he began to look panicked, Mycroft’s ears perking up and his head tilting to the side. He wanted to ask, but he knew if he listened he would eventually get his answer.  
“We are not a liar!”  
“Yes we are. Tell it how we heard about the desolation of the dragon, tell it we heard Dwarveses from Moria speak of Smauglock the Terrible and that we didn’t tells it!” A pit of dread formed in Mycroft’s stomach, feeling as if he had just been slapped.  
“What do you know of my brother?” Mycroft’s voice came out bitter and dark, clearly frightening the creature.  
“Just that it is in Erebor, we swears it, it killed the dwarveses and stole the gold.” That didn’t sound like his brother to him, but he had to find out, changing swiftly back into his natural state. Gollum curled up into a ball, fearful that Mycroft was going to hurt him, but he was unconcerned with anything but his little brother in that moment. Mycroft made his way quickly out of the Mountain and into the fresh air, not caring who or what saw him for the first time in almost two hundred years.  
Meanwhile, the entirety of the Shire was abuzz with gossip and excitement. The most unadventurous and unlikely Hobbit in all of Hobbiton had decided to journey to the mountains. All of the highly conservative Bagginses were shocked and appalled, blaming Bungo Baggins’s wife, Belladonna Took, for this very strange behavior.  
Bungo and Belladonna had even taken their newborn son Bilbo with them on this adventure, and as it had been officially six months since they left (no one in the Shire had any sense of how long it took to get anywhere in Middle Earth on foot, mostly because they hardly ever left their own houses) they believed the couple was never coming back.  
It was because of this that on this day over half of Hobbiton was quarreling over who Bungo’s famous Bag End was going to go to. Specifically, Camellia Sackville and her husband Longo Baggins, who believed that they were the heirs to the estate since Longo was Bungo’s next eldest brother.  
However, Belba Baggins, the eldest Baggins sister (and second eldest of all the Baggins children), knew better than to trust Camellia, who was one of the greediest Hobbits she had ever met. It was also only Belba who believed that Bungo was surely coming home, and it was because of this that she insisted she and her husband look after Bag End until their siblings return. The dispute was settled by the patriarch of the family, Mungo, who allowed his daughter her request at the behest of his wife who refused to believe that her son and first grandson had perished in the mountains.  
It was while this was going on that the two young Hobbits, who in reality were doing just fine, reached their destination. Belladonna was quite in her element, as she had always been quite the adventurer, and she did most of the hard work on the couple’s journey to the Lonely Mountain. Her husband came from a much more reserved branch of Hobbits, and it had taken her nearly forever to get him to agree to this little excursion. One may argue however, that this made Bungo not so much a coward, but a smarter Hobbit. The Bagginses made a mistake travelling this far from the Shire, and by the time they realized it, it was much too late.  
“Belladonna, love, Bilbo has fallen asleep. Perhaps we should wait to enter the mountain for a little while.” Bungo suggested quietly, a loving smile crossing his lips as he looked down at his young baby. Bilbo was a precious little Hobbit, all chubby cheeks and unruly copper-brown hair, the absolute apple of his parents’ eyes. Belladonna sighed and pecked her husband gingerly on the cheek.  
“It’s best we get him inside the mountain while he rests. It’s a little chilly out.” She reminded him, peaking around for the mouth of the entrance. Bungo’s eyebrows furrowed with worry.  
“And you’re sure old Smauglock doesn’t live here anymore?” The Hobbit rolled her eyes and laughed, walking on to the long since melted gates of Erebor.  
“Don’t be silly. Smauglock hasn’t been seen for over a century, he’s probably dead.” Bungo wasn’t so sure, but he trusted his wife, and followed her blindly into the caverns.   
It didn’t take Smauglock long at all to pick up the new and very interesting scent that was now about the air. He opened a golden eye lazily, not bothering to move until he figured out exactly what it was he was catching wind of.  
Not Dwarf….not Elf….Man? No, Men smell far worse than whatever creature is invading my mountain…I can smell Lake Town from miles away. Certainly not a fellow dragon, nor an animal. Hmm, let us see then. He thought to himself as he finally decided to have a look.  
It was around the time that Smauglock reared his head that Belladonna and Bungo had made it to his very chamber, and the dragon didn’t have to go looking for them after all. The couple had laid Bilbo just behind the bend, for safe measure, as they were preparing to peak around and make sure the mountain truly was dragon-free. Smauglock held very still as he heard one of the small creatures slip, tumbling into a pile of his gold.  
“Belladonna, I told you to be careful! You best be glad Smaug the Terrible seems to have taken holiday!” A Cheshire-like grin crossed the drake’s face, watching with delight as the male Hobbit dove in to help his wife to her feet.  
“It’s Smauglock.” Both Hobbits’ blood ran cold as they slowly turned around, a pair of bright gold eyes staring back at them from the shadows.  
“Come now,” Smauglock began, slowly walking into the light.  
“Don’t be shy.” His skilled mind was analyzing them instantly, drinking them in, reveling in the fear he felt radiating off of their tiny bodies.  
Small, very small, obviously a sub-breed of some sort.  
Fast pulse  
Newly married  
Opposites  
Sheltered  
Far from home….perfect. Smauglock was quiet while he deducted, which was probably the most frightening thing about him in Bungo’s opinion. He pushed Belladonna behind him and tried to put on a brave face. Smauglock thought it was cute.  
“O Smaug, the great and terrible, we are sorry to have trespassed. We’ll be on our way, o magnificent one, we are but lost travelers.” Smauglock thought he spoke intelligently, and this was probably the only reason he didn’t flay him where he stood.  
“I SAID MY NAME WAS SMAUGLOCK!” He roared, the entire bottom of the mountain trembling beneath their feet.  
“Y-yes, of c-course, King under the Mountain! I a-apologize!” The groveling was pleasing, the drake slinking around the Hobbits in a predatory manner.  
“Who and what are you, from where do you hail?” Smauglock demanded, weaving his long body in even closer around the terrified couple.  
“We are s-simple Shire Hobbits, from Eriador… our name is Baggins.” Smauglock found this to be most interesting, he’d never heard of a Hobbit before. None of the dragons had ever been west of the Misty Mountains, and most didn’t even know regions such as Eriador and Rohan existed.   
“Tell me then, Hobbits of Eriador, what business you have in the East, and do be brief.” Smauglock, though intrigued, was also easily bored and the Hobbit’s ability to answer this question and answer it well was his determining factor on whether or not he was going to let them go.  
“My wife is a bit of a thrill-seeker, runs in her blood, yeah? So naturally, when that Gandalf fellow popped up in the Shire again several months ago raving on about dragons and the great King Moriarty’s new alliance with the Dwarves taking refuge in the Blue Mountains near our home, she got really curious. Gandalf said it all began around this area.” Smauglock narrowed his eyes as the name Moriarty immediately caused hatred to rise inside the drake.  
“Great King Moriarty? Is that what they call him? Tell me, Halfling, what is so great about one who slaughters without purpose, rips family from innocent beings without so much as a sliver of remorse?!” He bellowed, beating his wings harshly in the air.  
“Is that not what you did to the Dwarves?” Belladonna spat, her bravery becoming here her greatest downfall. Smauglock was both hurt and shocked, a flood of emotions coming over him at once. He didn’t want to believe he had been in the wrong, the Dwarves had deserved what became of them…hadn’t they? No, No! He was not a murderer! They were! And so were those in alliance with the filthy monsters!  
There was no time for either Hobbit to react, thick hot magma spewing from Smauglock’s chest like a dam breaking. It was as if all the guilt and sadness welling in him all those years finally ruptured, and he couldn’t stop. Flame and death and decay radiated throughout the chambers, melting some of his precious treasures in the process. The fiery screaming tantrum didn’t end until the dragon’s ears picked up on something crying in the distance. By then Belladonna and Bungo Baggins were no more than mere scorch stains on the floor, which Smauglock chose not to feel the slightest bit guilty about until he stumbled upon the source of the cries.  
“Oh my vala…” When his eyes fell upon the wailing Hobbit child something inside of the dragon shattered. That curly tuft of auburn hair, those tiny tear-filled blue eyes…it was the smallest and cutest baby he had ever seen and it killed him on the inside. He had just killed this child’s parents like Moriarty had killed his, and while he may never believe the Dwarves were undeserving, he knew that this baby was. He shifted down into a more human form, as Mycroft had done earlier, in order to properly care for the little one. He was about an inch shorter than his brother when in this form, and paler, his hair dark and curly, his eyes remaining gold. Red patches of scales ran along the underneath of his left eye, sporadic patches running all along his body. He shot the baby a fanged, terrified, and depressed smile.  
“I am so sorry, sweet child. I beseech your forgiveness.” Smauglock picked the baby up and cuddled him tightly to his chest, eyeing the blanket he was wrapped in curiously. In cursive print was stitched the name “Bilbo” and he chuckled to himself as he carried the child back to his mountain of gold and began to rock him.  
“Bilbo Baggins…what a terrible name. I always thought I’d name a son John.” The baby quieted and popped his little thumb in his mouth, the deep sound of the drake’s voice seeming to calm him. A strange feeling was stirring inside of Smauglock as he watched over the child, and he found himself longing to protect him, especially after what he’d just done. He supposed then, the proper thing to do would be to raise him himself.  
“How about…Johnbo…close enough to the original but better, yeah?” Of course the baby didn’t say anything, but the tiny cooing noise that he made around his thumb made Smauglock smile genuinely for the first time in he didn’t know when.  
“Johnbo it is then.” It was about this time that an incredible roar was heard at the non-existent gate of the mountain, and one that was blissfully familiar. Smauglock’s head shot toward the direction of the sound, a bright smile on his face as he shushed Johnbo gently, who was startled by the volume of the vocation.  
“Mycroft!”


	3. No Admittance Except on Party Buisness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A deeper look into Moriarty's past, dealings with a wizard, and cute fluffy parent!lock ahead :D

Late in the year of T.A. 2893, Johnbo Baggins celebrated his third birthday. If Smauglock had done his math correctly, he would have known Johnbo should have been born sometime in September of T.A. 2890, and though he didn’t know the exact day he’d made up September 22nd to be the child’s birthday, as his mother had been born on the 22nd of February. The young Hobbit was a curious and loving little one, wide blue eyes always filled with excitement. Smauglock would be the first to admit that he loved him very dearly, and even Mycroft, who visited often, was fond of him.  
Mycroft had flown back to the Withered Heath after his reunion with his brother. He had hopes of rebuilding their family there one day, though finding a female companion was proving difficult. There were too few dragons left in the world, and Mycroft feared greatly for their extinction. Because it was little Johnbo’s birthday, or just John, as they’d begun to call him, Mycroft was flying back to Erebor with a small gift and some news he’d picked up while visiting his old friend in the Misty Mountains.  
Smauglock was lounging in a pile of his gold, scarf around his neck, per usual, and an old white sheet wrapped around his body. There weren’t any clothes in the kingdom apart from what the Dwarves had left behind, and they fit neither he nor Johnbo, who was also sheet-clad. Johnbo was running around happily, playing with Smauglock’s present to him, which was, of all things, The Arkenstone. Smauglock had dug for many nights to find the Heart of the Mountain, knowing its shiny and iridescent disposition would highly appeal to the small boy.  
“Smau-Smau, it pwetty! Wook!” He exclaimed happily, sticking the stone inside his sheet and giggling as it gave the illusion that his entire body was glowing. Smauglock chuckled lovingly and reached out to gently ruffle the Hobbit’s auburn curls.  
“I knew you would love it.” No sooner had he said this that Mycroft made his grand entrance, Johnbo running off excitedly to greet his friend. Though both dragons almost always made a point to use their human forms around the child, he wasn’t frightened by Mycroft’s dragon form, and reached his tiny arms up in anticipation. Mycroft bent down and allowed Johnbo to climb up on his back. Mycroft took flight and the child’s sweet laughter filled the mountain, Smauglock shaking his head at his brother.  
“Put John down, would you, he’ll fall.” Mycroft fought the urge to cachinnate at his brother, who appeared to have gone soft on him. When he landed and made sure John was safely on the ground once more he shifted and took a seat beside Smauglock.  
“Are you always that protective?” Smauglock didn’t bother to respond, taking a moment to read Mycroft’s expression.  
“Something troubles you, brother. Pray tell. Though perhaps that would prove to be unnecessary since I’m perfectly capable of deducing for myself. You wreak of Moria and the twisted creature living beneath the Misty Mountains, and I can tell from your gift of elderberries that you’ve been snooping around Reichenbach, as it is the only area in all of Middle-Earth where they grow. Are you trying to get yourself killed, Mycroft?” Mycroft sighed at the pouch of berries in his hand, handing them to John and looking grimly at Smauglock.  
“Something has to be done. You haven’t heard the things I’ve heard, you don’t know what’s coming. We haven’t seen the last of Moriarty, Smauglock, and I can’t fathom how it’s possible. I swear before the Valar themselves that I torched that monster and what was left of his army.” Smauglock rolled his eyes, offending his brother with his obviously dismissive and uninterested demeanor.  
“One mustn’t listen to rumors, brother dearest. It’s in poor taste.” Mycroft opened his mouth to retort when John approached once more, purple stains now around his lips from digging into his present.  
“Myoff…can go ouwside? Pwease?” The elder dragon sighed heavily and nodded, gesturing sternly toward his sibling.  
“Get up, you’re coming with us. This conversation is not over.” Smauglock didn’t feel like obeying orders, but something in the steely tone Mycroft was using told him that he didn’t have a choice. The trio headed out into the warm September air, admiring the beautiful view of the Iron Hills on the horizon. It wasn’t often that John was allowed outside, and the little one flopped down happily to gaze at the clouds passing by overhead.  
“I’ve heard whispers of the wizard Gandalf’s association with Moriarty. The two have terrible plans, plans that involve finishing what began with our family. According to Sméagol, Moriarty believes that the destruction of all created by the hands of Morgoth is the only way to bring true peace to Arda. And think of it, Smauglock, if we thought he was powerful before…he has now won the loyalty of Gandalf the Grey and who knows how many others. The mountains may no longer be safe.” Smauglock placed his fingers under his chin and raised an eyebrow, analyzing the credibility of Mycroft’s claims.  
“And you’re certain that this Sméagol is a reliable source? Isn’t he the very being that attempted to murder you over a silly magic ring?”  
“You know that the rings of power take tolls on people, especially if the one he has come by belonged to that of Man. We all know what became of that. Besides, Sméagol has been a friend to me for longer than can be properly counted, I trust him, crazy as he may be. He hears a lot down in his cave, especially from the Dwarves.”  
“That’s swell, brother, but riddle me this, how does a simple Dwarf survive dragon fire? Did you not see him turn to ash?” Mycroft hung his head in shame.  
“I did, but I fear there was magic involved that went by me unnoticed, how else could this be possible? I believe it to be true, I’ve been all around the perimeter of Reichenbach. Everyone speaks of it. The Dwarves are mighty proud of themselves.” Smauglock’s rational brain told him that these rumors were simply that and nothing more, but the way his brother spoke wrought a pang of fear inside the drake, one he couldn’t quite seem to shake.  
“What action might we take?” He asked, looking protectively on John, who was still innocently smiling up at the sky. Mycroft looked as if he were at a loss, which was even more frightening.  
“There is more. The Dwarves that you ran out of this mountain, they’ve been living in the Blue Mountains near where you said John’s parents were from. Thrór has long since passed, but his successor, Thráin, was left a key to the kingdom. It is said that the old loon went missing around T.A. 2841, and was found completely out of his mind and on death’s doorstep by none other than Gandalf about forty years ago. The key was then passed on to Gandalf, and if it finds its way into King Moriarty’s hands, there is no telling what may happen. I don’t want you and Johnbo to be here if they decide to raid.” Smauglock’s eyebrows creased with a mixture of worry and confusion, shaking his head slowly at his brother’s words.  
“That key belongs to Thráin’s son, Lestrade Oakenshield, it is not the wizard’s to keep.” Mycroft shrugged.  
“That doesn’t mean that he won’t.” Smauglock thought about it all for a few moments, weighing his options. The way he saw it, they could either flee the mountain to some unknown secluded area and leave all their wealth behind based on a cave-rat’s testimony, or take their chances in the mountain and risk little Johnbo’s future. It was all so illogical, and the drake shook his head many times, as if to clear it.  
“Mycroft, I appreciate your concern, but I think we need to sort fact from fiction before we make any hasty decisions. Is there any way you can investigate this more thoroughly without getting yourself slaughtered?” Mycroft nodded.  
“I am planning another visit to Sméagol soon, I really need to get him to let me borrow that ring. It would be most useful.” Smauglock knew that was a moot effort, but before he could say so his favorite child had run gleefully into his arms.  
“Smau-Smau! Hide go seek?” Smauglock couldn’t resist the grin that broke across his face, kissing the top of the little Hobbit’s head. He was tired of all the doom and gloom and he trusted his brother to find out more factual information.  
“Of course.” He agreed, closing his eyes and counting to ten.  
Meanwhile, the main center of the dragon’s concerns was heading straight for Erebor as they spoke. None other than Gandalf the Grey was voyaging, not specifically to the Lonely Mountain, but to the Iron Hills, to discuss Moriarty’s plans with Dáin Ironfoot. The wandering wizard planned to inspect both the Lonely and Grey Mountains while in Rhovanion, but only briefly, before heading straight for the hills, though he knew better than to provoke the drakes he was more than certain dwelled there. In his company were Fíli and Kíli, of Durin’s Folk, who had accompanied him at the generosity of Lestrade Oakenshield himself.  
Gandalf, despite popular belief, was not in alliance with King Moriarty, not truly. Though it was in the wizard’s best interest to pretend to be so, especially in order to gain the trust of Lestrade Oakenshield, with whom he knew he would have important dealings in the future. There was something not quite right about the Dwarven king from Reichenbach, Gandalf could feel it in his bones.  
Moriarty had been raised in the Mountains of Ash, the very mountains that acted as a border between Rhovanion and Mordor. When Sauron had come to power in the Second Age, Moriarty’s father, Ørviti, had fled with his family to the uninhabited stretch of land located at the base of the Grey Mountains, and naming it Reichenbach, after the beautiful waterfalls that ran through there. The family and their people flourished at the falls, however it became quickly known that King Ørviti was mad, and many who resided in Reichenbach felt no safer under his reign than they had living in a land corrupted by Sauron’s power. Around the year T.A. 2760, ten years before Moriarty’s march into the Withered Heath, the young prince witnessed his father turn a crossbow around on himself and shoot an arrow through his own eye, committing suicide and leaving the kingdom to him.  
Gandalf feared that growing up under the influence of Sauron’s darkness and his traumatic ascent to the throne may have planted an evil inside of Moriarty, who himself didn’t appear to always have all his wits about him. King Moriarty preached peace, but no matter how vain and terrible the race of dragons may have been, spilling their blood wasn’t going to breed harmony. This was why that out of all the Dwarves Gandalf could have chosen to accompany him on his journey, he had selected Fíli and Kíli. They were the youngest out of the Dwarves in the line of Durin, and the most open-minded, particularly Kíli, who was softer at heart than he’d probably like to admit.  
The trio decided to stop for a respite in Esgaroth, having been on their feet for longer than they could bear. They rested beneath a large shady willow tree and Gandalf pulled out his pipe. While the wizard was lost in his Pipe-Weed induced haze, Fíli took notice that his brother seemed to be in another world, an almost forlorn expression in his chocolate brown eyes.  
“How do you fair, my brother? You look sad.” Kíli shook his head.  
“Not sad, but sick. Did you not witness the perfection that happened upon us in Mirkwood?” Fíli thought for a moment, trying and failing to understand his sibling’s words.  
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” The younger Dwarf sighed and closed his eyes, leaning his head on his brother’s shoulder.  
“I don’t think anyone will. Think back to the glow, the flicker of bright light around the Woodland Elves we saw in the wood. In that beautiful radiance shone hair the color of a red rose, framing the delicate features of a porcelain face that carried eyes of emerald. I may never see another maiden so lovely, and I never even got to say hello.” Fíli was taken aback by this confession, but he could tell that this Elf maiden had stolen something precious from his brother, at first sight too, bless him. He wrapped an arm around Kíli and pulled him in closer to him.  
“It’s alright, lad. I won’t tell Uncle Lestrade that you’re a traitor.” He jested, earning a laugh and a soft smack from his younger sibling. Gandalf decided to use the silence that followed as an excuse to interrupt the conversation, talk of Mirkwood reminding him of the task at hand.  
“Do you say we tell Dáin that Moriarty isn’t to be trusted? I’m leaving the decision in your hands, as he is your kin.” Kíli scoffed at the question, startling the other two men in his company.  
“What else would we tell him? It’s Moriarty’s fault that old Smauglock desolated the mountain, don’t pretend like you don’t know that the attack was provoked. His plan is genocide, it isn’t right. No one who has gone through what my people have suffered would believe in such a thing, caused by dragon-fire or not.”  
“Aye, but Lestrade would disagree with you. As a matter of fact, most Dwarves are in agreement with Moriarty, they just don’t see it like that. It’s Dwarven nature to protect and avenge our own, at the cost of the dragons or not.” Fíli reminded him, an annoyance filling Kíli’s chest.  
“Yeah well, maybe we should change our nature. Two wrongs make not a right, isn’t that what Mother taught us?” Fíli sighed and nodded his head.  
“You’re right, I know, but this situation has to be handled delicately. We need not anger our kin and Moriarty, not when three against two entire kingdoms spells certain defeat. How does one go about a ‘Save the Dragons’ campaign to a lot who lost their homes to the winged furnaces? I think we need to have a long debate with Dáin, hear his feelings on the situation and go from there. Perhaps there is a way to expose Moriarty’s true nature, but at the present, we’ve not been given enough proof to support that he’s corrupt. We must dig, first, if Dáin will allow it.” Gandalf smiled and took another long puff of his pipe.  
“Fíli is right, you’ve got a good head on your shoulders for a Dwarf. I had a good feeling about the two of you, which just goes to show.” Both Fíli and Kíli raised an eyebrow at the old man.  
“Just goes to show what, exactly?” Gandalf let out a merry chuckle and stood up, leaning on his staff for support.  
“Always trust a wizard’s instincts! Now let’s be off, we’ve wasted time!”  
Back in the Lonely Mountain, Johnbo and Smauglock had finished their games for the day and had headed back to their den with Mycroft, who decided to stay the night. The small Hobbit was completely tuckered out, rubbing his eyes and reaching up for Smauglock to hold him. Smauglock lay down in his bed of gold and curled his body around the child, pulling him into an embrace and smiling as the Hobbit nuzzled into his chest.  
“Night-night, Smau-Smau. I wove you.” The dragon yawned and petted Johnbo’s head gently, already beginning to fade into unconsciousness.  
“I love you too.” Mycroft grinned as he found his own pile of gold to sleep on, finding his brother’s behavior with the toddler absolutely adorable.  
Smaug, you old fool, Mother always said you had the biggest heart of us all, Mycroft thought to himself as he too drifted off into a sweet slumber.


	4. Good Morning!

Late during the night on that fateful 22nd of September, Johnbo Baggins awoke from his sleep. His little ears were strong, and the small Hobbit was sure he could hear something or someone rooting around outside his home. John gave Smauglock a kiss on the cheek and wiggled out of the dragon's embrace, picking up his blanket and heading out to explore. Having been raised by dragons, John feared absolutely nothing at this stage in his life, and he believed all the creatures of Middle Earth to be his friends. The only race in all of Arda that John had been taught were not his equal were the Dwarves, and even at three years old he knew better than to think any Dwarves would be stupid enough to lurk around his Smau-Smau's mountain.

The young hobbit slid as quietly as he could down the mountain of gold and peeked his head outside of their den, looking around curiously as he attempted to make his way outside. Smauglock always used a shortcut when taking John out for fresh air, preventing a long adventure through Erebor's winding tunnels, but the child couldn't exactly remember his way. He followed the voices he heard until he finally came to a small landing that he could easily climb down, leading to the pass where he made out a distinct male voice.

"I think the mountain is clear, if Smauglock is here then he slumbers greatly, otherwise there wouldn't have been such a drop off in activity. Do you think it wise to check deeper into the caverns?" Fíli had asked this, and Gandalf was about to respond when he was cut off by a tiny bubbly voice.

"Don't wake Smau-Smau, I out of bed, he be angwee." All three men were absolutely gob smacked. They exchanged alarmed glances with each other before Kíli reached out and attempted to comfort the child. John flinched and shook his head wildly.

"Uh-uh, Dwarf bad! You hurt my Smau…not nice!" Kíli looked to Gandalf for answers, who knelt before the toddler. His aged eyes looked Johnbo up and down thoroughly, shaking his head as he did so.

"Unbelievable…a Halfling…this little one is a Hobbit. You're pretty far from home aren't you, child?" John looked confused and shook his head, his springy ginger curls falling into is eyes.

"No, I wive here." Gandalf didn't want to argue with the hobbit, smiling at him and sitting down cross legged on the ground.

"Okay then. Nice to meet you, what is your name?"

"Johnbo, but Smau-Smau and Myoff jus call me John." He replied innocently, pulling a corner of his blanket to his mouth and beginning to suck on it. It was then that Gandalf could read the embroidery on it and his heart filled with dread.

"Oh Bilbo…Bilbo Baggins, I had so hoped Belladonna and Bungo were somewhere safe…though I feared this to be the outcome. I'm surprised Smauglock kept you alive." It was clear to the wizard that John did not understand and as he stood he extended his hand to the young lad.

"Come along, Bilbo, I'm going to take you back to your family. You've got an Aunt Belba who's been looking forward to your return." John didn't budge.

"My name is John and my family is here." He stated matter-of-factly, staring in an almost challenging manner at the two Dwarves standing before him. Kíli turned pitiful eyes to Gandalf.

"Maybe we should let him be, Smaug seems to care for him, otherwise he'd be dead right now. I feel it may be wrong to rob him of the only family he knows." Fíli opened his mouth to agree with his brother but shut it again as he took notice of the look on the old man's face.

"Do not mistake your sympathy for the dragons plight as the moral high ground. This child belongs with the family who is mourning his loss, not the inferno who stole him away. We will take Master Bilbo back to the Shire, that is where he belongs." John turned to run back up the pass, but Gandalf was quick at work and slung the child over his shoulder. John screamed as loud as his little lungs could manage for his Smau-Smau, but a quick spell from Gandalf made his cries impossible to hear. Johnbo Baggins would live to hate his curiosity for the rest of his childhood.

When Smauglock woke the next morning without John securely in his grasp, he panicked. Smauglock and Mycroft scoured the mountains for days, tore entire county sides apart.

"John! John please, come back!" He wept, curling into a ball in his den, inconsolable in his sorrow by even the warmth of his brothers embrace. John had been the light in the darkness, he was what made Smauglock's life livable again after the loss of his family. He didn't know what he had ever done to deserve this sort of pain. Mycroft lay down with his brother, gently petting the other dragon's obsidian curls.

"I'm so sorry, brother. I knew I smelled Dwarves the morning John vanished, I know they must have stolen him away…Johnbo would have never just up and ran away. I could see it in his eyes, Smauglock, he loved you. You were all he had." Smauglock only wept harder and shook his head no.

"You're wrong….he was all I had…and I was stupid enough to believe taking him in and opening my heart up would be enough to make up for all the wrong I've done. The world is still punishing me, Mycroft. That's why I can't take this out on the Dwarves…I'm already paying for that mistake three fold."

As Smauglock fell into a deep depression, John was forced to live with Belba Baggins back at Bag End, who told him over and over that "Smau-Smau" didn't really exist and that he'd made him up to cope after his parents death, very fortunate that Gandalf had found him when he did. Years and years of hearing this and of being shunned by the other young Hobbits of Hobbiton eventually had John believing most of the lie, though he still refused to go by Bilbo, believing deep in his heart that he remembered his name being John for a reason.

John's room was filled to the brim with drawings and sketches of his human looking dragon, and even some of Mycroft, though John no longer remembered what the purple dragon of his dreams was even called. Year after year passed, John becoming more and more boring as he sought to suppress everything that made him weird, everything even remotely Tookish. He put away his beautiful detailed drawings of "Smau-Smau" and took up gardening with some of his relatives. The Gamgee family had been particularly kind to him, and it was Roper Gamgee that helped Bilbo cultivate the nice little garden out back that Samwise Gamgee would later come to love so.

John tried very, very hard to lead a normal life, and as he leapt the threshold from boy to man it seemed to everyone in the Shire that it had worked. Johnbo Baggins was a normal Hobbit now, who would have thought? But John knew the truth. He could hide behind his books and his planted trees all the wanted, but there wasn't a night that went by that he didn't dream of dragons.

In T.A. 2941 Johnbo Baggins was a grand fifty years old, still young in adulthood for a Hobbit, though his neighbors were now under the solid impression that he was just as unadventurous and respectable as his father. It had been a good long while now since Smauglock had crossed the Hobbit's mind, which was now mainly filled with wondering what he was going to have for second breakfast and how long it would be before he ran out of this months supply of Pipe-Weed.

John woke up feeling particularly good one March morning of this year, having himself a nice long stretch and skipping breakfast to sit outside on his porch and have a good smoke. It was a beautiful day, and he longed to watch the Shire wake up and hear the calls of far off animals. It was while he was basking in the early rays of the morning sun that quite the peculiar man passed by. He was a Big Person, and you didn't see many of them pass through the Shire. He was wearing a pointy blue hat and long grey robes…looking oddly familiar to John for reasons he couldn't quite put his finger on.

"Good morning." John said cheerily to the stranger, not thinking very much of this formality and continuing to puff his pipe. That is, until he noticed that the elderly gentleman had now stopped to stare at him.

"What do you mean?" He asked, putting his own pipe in his mouth and taking a long drag.

"Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it nor not; or that you feel good this morning; or that it is a morning to be good on?" John's eyebrows furrowed in a perplexed comportment and he just sort of sat with his mouth ajar for a moment before replying.

"All of them at once I suppose…" An awkward silence followed as they just sort of stared at one another. The large man was beginning to make our young Hobbit quite uncomfortable, and as if he could sense it the old man spoke at once.

"I am looking for someone to share in an adventure that I am arranging, and it is very difficult to find anyone." John almost laughed in his face, vague memories of the Lonely Mountain filling his mind for the first time in a long time.

"I should think so¾in these parts! We are plain quiet folk and have no use for adventures. Nasty disturbing uncomfortable things! Make you late for dinner! Good morning!" He paused to take a breath and rise from where he sat, preparing to retreat indoors.

"We don't want any adventures here, thank you! You might try over The Hill or across The Water." The old man almost looked insulted.

"To think I should have lived to be good-morninged by Belladonna Took's son, as if I was selling buttons at the door! Come now Bilbo Baggins, you know my name though you don't remember that I belong to it. I am Gandalf, and Gandalf means me!" John's face fell and his jaw set at the very sound of being called Bilbo.

"My name is John, Gandalf the Grey, I've told you this before." The sudden coldness of the Hobbit's tone caught Gandalf quite off guard and both of his eyebrows rose in surprise.

"So you do remember me?" John didn't answer, but he didn't have to and the old wizard sighed.

"What I did, I did for your own good."

"And what exactly did you do, hmm, wandering wizard? All my life they've made me feel mad, telling me I'd made the dragon up and that you saved my life…but why do I feel like that's a load of codswallop?" Gandalf met John's eyes with a warm look and shrugged his shoulders.

"That is for you to decide."

Meanwhile, the years had not been kind to Smauglock, who was still withering away in his mountain with his head buried under an enormous pile of gold. Mycroft had stayed with him a good long while, but even the drakes loving older brother eventually tired of the eternal melancholy his brother was immersed in and retreated back to the Withered Heath in defeat. Smauglock tried his best to sleep the days away, no longer caring if Moriarty and his troops tried anything, however at this point it appeared as if that had been nothing more than mere rumor.

Mycroft, who had been spying on the Dwarves all these years was unconvinced that they had just dropped their entire plan at the drop of a hat, if anything Gandalf's visit to Dáin had only prolonged the inevitable. However he knew more than anyone that there was no point in trying to prove any of this to his brother, who had already given up and had been wishing for death for a good forty seven or so years.

Though perhaps it could be said that the real threat they should have been worrying about was one that was completely unbeknown to either brother, and involved the very wizard who had ruined the last four decades of the drakes lives.

The key that Mycroft had warned Smauglock of earlier had finally been passed along from Gandalf to Lestrade Oakenshield, rightful King Under the Mountain. Lestrade was planning something, something terrible, and chances were likely that if he got his way, Smauglock wasn't going to survive it. But lucky for the dragon, fate was destined to involve a certain little Hobbit on this last adventure, a Hobbit who could change the course of history with the answer to one little question: Should he ask Gandalf over for tea?

A/N: Some of this chapters dialogue is directly from The Hobbit

**Author's Note:**

> Ideas belong to me but majority of characters belong to JRR Tolkien and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Basically, if you recognize it, I don't own it.


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